


The Dewey Decimal Philharmonic

by valsedenuit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, M/M, Quiet Sex, Semi-Public Sex, books are sexy, library kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valsedenuit/pseuds/valsedenuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are going to get caught.</p><p>John knows that there is no bloody way they're getting away with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dewey Decimal Philharmonic

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing anything of such a smutty nature so... enjoy!

They are going to get caught.

John knows that there is no bloody way they're getting away with this.

Sherlock said that he'd done extensive research and that all the data _oh_ suggests that the fourth floor of the library really was practically abandoned this late on a Saturday night but he swears to god that if Sherlock doesn't stop doing those delicious, naughty things he's doing with fingers he's _yes, right there_ going to announce their presence quite audibly to anyone who is around to hear it.

As it is they're being very quiet, but to John's ears it sounds like a concert. Sherlock's huffing hot air on his throat and John himself is panting as quietly as he can while _Jesus Christ_ those long, practiced fingers work him open, stretching him slowly and he's biting back a whimper but it still manages to escape, soft and muffled in his throat, and Sherlock's chuckling into John's hair now and _oh fuck_ Sherlock's left hand, which had been bracing him against the bookshelf is sneaking around to John's front.

Soon, the soft, slick noises of Sherlock's fingers stroking John's foreskin up and down his shaft join the muted orchestra.

If anyone were to glance down their row, they'd see the two men, bent over examining books, the taller of them perusing titles two shelves above the shorter man. Or at least that's how it appears under the dim library lights.

It looks a little strange, since Sherlock's coat is draped over both of them, but that glorious coat is currently hiding the small, maddening movements Sherlock's hip are making, rocking against him in minute little thrusts and effectively running his heated erection along the cleave of John's ass, and John is grateful for this (very small) preservation of his modesty.

They picked up a little speed now, and in his ear John hears Sherlock's breath hitch, every exhale punctuated with a frustrated growl, and John shuts his eyes and scrambles for a firmer purchase with his hands. All he finds are the aging spines of forgotten books, and so he digs his fingers in as hard as he can, because that's the only think keeping him from moaning obscenely.

John's legs quiver as Sherlock's elegant fingers suddenly curl, slightly upwards, and brush his prostrate.

“Ahhh fuck,” John whispers as he huffs out the breath he's been trying to hold in.

About thirty feet away, there's the sound of movement, in between the rows of shelves.

Both men still, Sherlock's fingers still clenched inside John. They are sweaty and the position is awkward and John is sure their heavy breathing is audible from a mile away. His trousers are halfway down his thighs and he can feels them sticking to his skin. He's incredibly hard, and so is Sherlock, and they stay perfectly still.

There are a few more shuffling sounds, and a cough. Then the sound of shoes on carpet makes itself heard, and whoever is sharing the fourth floor with them is heading away, in the opposite direction.

The footsteps are still audible when Sherlock starts moving his fingers again, very slowly drawing circles around John's prostrate and it's all John can do not to keen, so instead he throws his head back and bites his lip, hard, harder than he's ever bitten anything.

John barely has time to process the cool air on his erection as Sherlock replaces his hand on the shelf above him, and his mind registers the loss of fingers and the obscene sound of Sherlock slicking himself up before Sherlock's pressing against him, hot and hard and _oh so ready_ , and John feels a moist hand shove his shirt up, and Sherlock's fingers curl around his hip as he _fuck_ slowly, languorously slides himself in.

From then on they're a little less careful with the quiet, and in the abandoned corner of the library small sounds can be heard - the rustle of fabric, and the slapping of skin, and whispered words ( _oh fuck, I'm almo-, oh Sherlock jesus fuck_ ) _,_ choked back groans and gasps and whimpers. No one hears them.

Even afterwards, the sighs, and the wet sound of kisses, and the re-adjusting of clothes go unnoticed. A hushed masterpiece, an _aria_ unheard. 

A little while later, John is leaving the library and as the cool evening air hits blushing skin, he's quite sure everyone who lays eyes on him can tell what he's been up to.

But they'll be back, anyway.

They've yet to get caught, and John wants to make the most out of his library card before it expires.


End file.
